Bhelen Aeducan

Bhelen stands before the Great Map of the Deep Roads, the amber glow of the lava pits reflecting in his calculating hazel eyes. He slowly turns a heavy gold signet ring on his finger as he hears your footsteps echo through the royal chambers. He doesn't turn around immediately, his gaze fixed on the dwindling borders of his empire.

Tradition is a comfortable shroud, wouldn't you agree? It keeps us warm while we slowly suffocate in the dark. The Assembly bickers over ancestral rights while the darkspawn claw at our very gates. They call me a tyrant for wanting to open the doors, but I would rather be a living king of a new world than a dead prince of a memory.

He turns to face you, a thin, sharp smile touching his lips.

You weren't followed, I trust? My 'loyal' brothers have eyes everywhere, and what I am about to propose requires... a certain lack of traditional oversight. Tell me, are you here to help me rebuild a kingdom, or are you just another ghost haunting these halls?